


Yuan Fen

by caffeineivore



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluffy Ending, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineivore/pseuds/caffeineivore
Summary: Yuan Fen: Fateful coincidence; destiny which brings two people’s lives together at some point, often through astronomical odds. “It takes hundreds of rebirths to bring two persons to ride in the same boat; it takes a thousand eons to bring two persons to share the same pillow.” A concept related to karma in Chinese Buddism.A no-nonsense law student makes a journey to the other side of the world to a land named after paradise in order to keep a deathbed promise to her grandfather. Nothing goes quite as expected, though. R/J rom-com type AU.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I technically wrote this like, last year. But I was lazy and didn't have an AO3 account yet. Oh well? Loosely inspired by a place I visited!

The crowd cramming its way through the customs line is appalling– and appallingly ill-mannered, even by Manhattan standards. Rachel Harris struggles her way through the throng, American passport in one hand, meticulously filled out arrival card in the other, and breathes a sigh of relief when she finally makes it to the front of the line. The unsmiling customs official scans her papers, then, as though she hadn’t written it down right there, asks, in heavily-accented English, “What brings you to China?”

“Personal visit,” she answers just as tersely.

“You will be staying how long?”

The grammatical order of the query is wrong, but Rachel raises her chin. “One month.” Not a minute more, if this would be her reception the whole time.

Finally, the unsmiling woman, whose hair is the same shade of coal black as Rachel’s, stamps the passport and passes it back. “Welcome to China. Go this way.”

Not that Rachel would have had another choice, exactly. The rest of the super aggressive crowd would have shuffled her forward like a canoe caught in a tidal wave. With a moue of disgust, she heads towards baggage claim, clacking on Louboutins that flashed red warning to anyone in her path.

There’s a trim, tidy young woman, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, in a black pantsuit holding up a sign bearing her name at the exit, and she greets Rachel with a professional sort of smile and a brief handshake. “My name is Miss Chen, and I will be in charge of your whole visit to China. Come, we have a car waiting for you.” Adroitly, Miss Chen piles Rachel’s matching luggage set onto a trolley and steers it through the crowd. “We have made arrangements for you to have a mobile phone in China so that it is easy to contact you. Of course, all hotels will have Wi-Fi, as well as business facilities should you require. How was your trip?”

“A very long fourteen hours,” Rachel answers dryly. 

“We will stop at the agency, review the itinerary and paperwork. Oh, and will you be needing currency exchange?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

It’s a good half-hour later that Rachel is ushered into a dark blue compact with tinted windows and a driver who certainly looks to be pushing seventy. Wrinkles and iron-gray hair aside, he takes Rachel’s bags and stows them in the trunk, exchanging a few words in Chinese with Miss Chen, then opens the door to the backseat for Rachel. 

“We will bring you to the hotel directly after we’re done filling out all the paperwork at the agency, Miss Harris. You may eat dinner at the hotel dining room, or at any place nearby which catches your eye. You must be very tired. Tomorrow, the driver will bring you to the train station so you can take the bullet train to your destination.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan,” Rachel says absently, then jerks into alertness when the compact swerves through a knot of Vespas and pedestrians with the skill and recklessness of a bank robbery getaway vehicle. “GOD! Okay, okay, then?”

“Your tour guide at your destination will contact you via the mobile phone given to you once you have disembarked from the bullet train.” Miss Chen smiles blandly at her, though there is a hint of amusement in her gaze. “His name is Jiang, or, John. He’s American, like you. You will like him. Handsome boy.”

“We’ll see.” Something about the other woman’s tone puts Rachel’s back up. “I just got out of a long term relationship with a handsome American boy back home, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not particularly enamoured of the species right now.”


	2. Beautiful Woman

The borrowed mobile phone, a non-descript iPhone something-or-another in a luridly pink and glittery case, rings about twenty minutes after Rachel is checked in at the Beijing hotel. In the process of changing out of her wrinkled blouse and only wearing one shoe, she hops on one foot to where it’s plugged in, and when she answers, she’s slightly out of breath. 

“Hello?”

“Good evening.” The voice is masculine, well-modulated but friendly. “You must be Miss Harris. My name is John Simmons, or– here in China it would actually be _Sima Jiang_. I’ll be your tour guide in Shangri-La.”

“Yeah, so I was told,” Rachel answers tersely as she pulls off the other shoe and seats herself on the bed. “John Simmons? That’s not a Chinese name.”

“Indeed, it isn’t.” She can all but hear the chuckle in his tone. “My parents were from the United States. My father got transferred over here for work and I moved here with them when I was seven. Part of a long story which, unfortunately, I’m sure will bore you more than anything after that long flight. Are you settled in?”

“Working on it, Mr Simmons,” Rachel peels off pantyhose with one hand while she holds the glittery phone case with the other. “So tomorrow, that driver— who, by the way, almost got all of us killed earlier, I’d like to state for the record!– is going to pick me up at the hotel lobby in the morning and take me to the train station, and then I’m supposed to board the train, and then…?”

“John, please. Sadly, even with the bullet train, your ride will take most of the day. However, I will be there with our driver to pick you up from the Kun-Ming station. Then, it will be onwards to Shangri-La in the mini-bus. It’s mountainous terrain, so bring some warm clothing, maybe a rain coat or umbrella just in case, and sensible shoes.” 

Rachel glances at the Louboutins on the carpeted floor of the hotel room and glares at nothing in particular. “Mm-hmm.”

Now, the chuckle breaks loose. “You should make sure to eat a good meal tonight, and tomorrow morning before the train ride… oh, and do you speak any Chinese at all, Miss Harris?”

“I know how to say hello, good-bye, sorry, thank you, and where is the restroom. Obviously, I’m all set, don’t you agree?” Rachel answers dryly. “Also, why should I call you John if you’re going to call me Miss Harris?”

“Mmm, a valid question. But you have not given me permission to use your given name, and they sort of pay more credence to this sort of thing hereabouts than in the States. But very well then,” John Simmons chuckles again. “Get some rest, _mei nü_. I’ll meet you in person tomorrow. Wan an.”

“What did you just call me?” Rachel demands, but the phone call cuts off with a click. 

Deliberately, she changes into pajamas, creams off her makeup, and orders room service for dinner before allowing herself to plug John Simmons’ mysterious epithet for her into a translator app. It comes back as ‘Beautiful woman’. 

**

Despite a bottle of green tea from a stewardess pushing a cart of snacks and drinks and her own very best intentions, Rachel falls asleep around noon as the train rolls on towards its destination, and when she wakes, it is to a pleasant-voiced announcer stating (in both Chinese and English) that the train is about to pull into its final station and for all passengers to please prepare to disembark. Outside, the sun is full west, and the sky is a vivid blue. Rachel rubs her eyes, then barely has time to wipe off smeared mascara with a tissue before the train comes to a halt as it pulls into the station. Quickly gathering up her bags, she follows the throng of passengers towards the exits. 

She is not quite sure what to expect. Certainly, people seem to be streaming off in all directions, towards a taxi stand, or a nearby bus station, or any number of what appeared to be hole-in-the-wall type restaurants in the area. Already lined up and waiting, too, are hawkers aggressively peddling anything from fresh fruit to grilled corn on the cob to cell phone accessories to what seemed to be tours of the local attractions. One of the latter comes quite up into Rachel’s face, waving a colourful brochure, and she almost lets him have an earful before remembering that it was completely likely that the fellow spoke no English. Ducking away, she almost crashes into another person. 

“ _Dui bu…qi_?” The last syllable of one fifth of her Chinese vocabulary ends in a question mark as she stares up into blue eyes almost the exact same shade as the sky above. The face is a good one– symmetrical, with a straight nose and nice cheekbones, a hint of golden-blond scruff on the jaw and chin to match the blond hair and eyebrows and eyelashes. The build is lanky and athletic, a few inches taller than her even in her heeled boots. He looks about thirty, wearing well-worn jeans and a badge of some sort on a lanyard over a light gray sweater, and smiles down at her in an almost-too-friendly way which immediately puts her on the defensive. “Excuse me, sir…”

“I’m John. John Simmons.” He holds up the badge for her to see, and it has his photograph on both sides. On the English side, it reads ‘John Simmons, Chinese Tour Guide Visa.’ “And you are Miss Rachel Harris.” At her startled look, the smile morphs into a cheeky grin. “Your passport photo is on file. For booking the hotels, tickets, and so on.”

“Oh. Right.” Flustered, she fiddles with her bags, and almost knocks one over. 

“Here, let me help you with that, _mei nü_.” John Simmons takes the largest of her suitcases and picks it up with ease. “Now, the bus is parked quite close. Shall we?”

She finds her footing again with that term, repeated again, and frowns at the back of his head even as she follows him down the street. “Are you flirting with me?”

A chuckle, which sounds so much warmer, somehow, in person as opposed to on the phone. “Do you think I am?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mei nü_ : Translates to ‘Beautiful woman’. Not always meant flirtatiously– that is open to interpretation. A common way to refer to a young woman one doesn’t know, particularly in Southern parts of China (i.e. _‘Mei nü, do you know where is the closest bus station?’ ‘Mei nü, would you like to buy some bottled water?’_ ). Sort of like how people from certain parts of America will refer to others as “honey” or “sweetie”, etc.


	3. High Altitude

The tour bus isn’t as big as Rachel might expect, and after she stows her luggage in the cargo hold area, she embarks to find that most of its seats are already occupied, leaving the labeled “tour guide” seat in the front row vacant as well as the second row. The rest of the travelers seem to be families or married couples, and she feels rather out of place as she takes her seat. 

John Simmons enters the bus after her, and gives all and sundry a bright smile even as he picks up a microphone and quickly runs down the list of everyone’s names and an introduction to himself. He is twenty-nine, born in Chicago, though he’d lived in China from childhood up until he’d graduated high school. He went back to the United States to acquire a Communications degree from Northwestern, but returned to China afterwards. It’s an odd sort of narrative to Rachel, whose tidy, orderly life has been on a well-formulated plan since her elementary school days (exclusive private schools, undergrad and law school at Columbia, a future spot at Harris and Bowen, the prestigious law firm where her father was a partner). But the tour guide does not focus overmuch on his own story, instead giving a brief overview of the area that their bus is heading towards.

“The province of Yunnan is known for its beautiful weather– spring-like conditions year-round, but there are a few things to bear in mind, everyone. Spring includes April showers, right? Especially in the mountains, it can occasionally be rainy, and chilly. Everyone should make sure to wear a few layers, and bring a raincoat or umbrella just in case. I have a few spare windproof jackets here on the bus in case anyone wants to borrow one– they’re not exactly the most fashionable, but they’ll do the trick. It’s one of three things I will be giving to anyone who asks, for the duration of their stay.”

“And what are the other two?” One of the other tourists in the back of the bus asks.

“Getting to that, my friend.” The bus makes its way up a very narrow and bumpy mountain road, and somehow despite that, John Simmons picks up a large bag and makes his way nimbly up the aisle of the bus. “The elevation of Shangri-La is quite high– about 3.6 km or 12000 feet above sea level. Some people may experience altitude sickness, the symptoms of which may include breathlessness, headaches, nausea and the like. Therefore, I have medical-grade oxygen canisters for everyone onboard. If you feel any type of discomfort, breathing it in will help offset the symptoms.” Even as the bus swerves around a corner and he should by all means be falling forward or at least stumbling, he stays steady on his feet as he hands Rachel hers first. It’s big and bulky and looks like nothing so much as a Costco-sized can of Febreze. She rolls her eyes and he grins and says nothing. 

The oxygen canisters are passed out, along with bottles of water, because, apparently, dehydration exacerbates altitude sickness symptoms. He goes on to remind everyone to remember to eat three meals a day– most importantly breakfast, before doing any type of strenuous activity. 

The bus finally makes its initial stop in a scenic canyon area, and Rachel exits the bus alongside the others as they follow John through the main entrance. The rush of water can be heard, and the path that John points out looks to be a series of steps, going down and then up. A few of the older tourists immediately book the services of locals pulling sedan chairs, and it elicits another eye-roll from Rachel. 

Certainly it can’t be worse than climbing up and down the Statue of Liberty.

Or working in an office on the fiftieth floor. 

She starts down the trail, and it’s stunning– jutting gray rock and deep green moss and trees and a rushing river at the bottom, and she’s sure she’s being a stereotypical tourist, snapping all sort of pictures. 

The trip back up the trail, on the other hand…

Rachel has always considered herself to be physically fit– certainly, she was too disciplined not to keep herself in shape via a thrice-weekly routine at the gym with a personal trainer. But not even halfway back up the trail, and she’s panting for breath. Certainly the scenery remains beautiful, but she is now in no humour to take any more pictures for posterity. 

And if the day could not get any more ironic, at that very moment, the lurid pink Chinese iPhone rings.

Rachel considers ignoring it at first even as she takes a seat on a nearby rock and puts her head between her knees, but when the ringing does not cease, she manages to dig it out. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s almost time for everyone to get back to the bus,” John Simmons’ voice is smooth and pleasant as usual– which of course grates on her very last nerve. “Most people are back at the parking lot now. Where are you?”

“Dying somewhere,” Rachel growls, swiping a sweaty lock of black hair out of her face. “I have no idea. The last sign I saw was on a trash can somewhere, showing one side for trash, the other for recyclables.”

“Do you have your oxygen?” 

“No,” Rachel bristles. “I interned all three years of law school on the fiftieth floor. That’s not the problem. I’m sure it’s not.”

“Ah.” A pause, and then he seems to sigh. “So, you aren’t sure where you are on the trail? Okay. Here’s what I need you to do. Take a picture of what’s in front of you, and send it to me right now. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, sure. Fine. It’s rocks. And trees and moss.”

A low, velvety laugh. “I’m very familiar with the rocks and trees and moss. I’ll come find you.”

He hangs up before Rachel can respond, and she would think about the fact that he seems enjoy getting the last word on her were it not for the fact that her head is starting to ache, so she turns on the camera app of the iPhone and snaps the most grimacing, ironic, exaggerated duck-faced selfie she can manage, and messages it to him.

She is not quite sure of how much time has passed, but after a short while, she hears brisk footsteps coming behind her, and turns her head to see John Simmons, who holds out her forgotten oxygen canister without preamble. He sets it up with dexterous fingers, and hands it to her, and too miserable to resist, she breathes it in.

Instant relief. A few whiffs later, the headache has faded, and she looks up to see him smiling down at her. 

“There we go. Now, get up slowly.” He holds out a hand, and she gingerly lays her own in it and lets him pull her up. She tries not to blush at the fact that he has to shorten his pace slightly to match her own, or that he keeps a grip on her hand as he takes her up the rest of the way. Certainly, she’s too old to be led around like a child crossing the street!

“I never did get the chance to ask, what brings you to this part of China? Most people start with Beijing or Shanghai or Hong Kong.” Maybe his strategy is to distract her as they go up all those steps, but whatever it is, it’s working. 

“My maternal grandfather was Chinese,” Rachel answers, acutely aware that he’s still holding her hand even though he doesn’t seem to make any sort of fuss over it. “He passed away last year, around Christmas. He’d moved to the United States as a young man, married an American woman, and never went back aside from visits once in a while.” The remembrance of her grandfather, with his gentle smile and seemingly-endless patience, almost chokes her. To hide her grief, she takes another deep whiff of oxygen. “He practically raised me, back when I was a little girl, after my mother died. And he’d always wanted to see Yunnan, especially Shangri-La. So when he was on his deathbed, he told me to come here– that I’d find myself here, or at least, if I didn’t, I’d be able to see it because he never got around to it. God. I’m dumping on you, aren’t I? I’ll stop right now.” Her next whiff of oxygen isn’t completely steady, and it’s only belatedly that she realizes that he’s let go of her hand and instead has his palm steady on the middle of her back. Rachel stiffens, unwilling to contemplate the idea that she’d ever be That Girl who unloaded all types of angst on random strangers and turned into a weepy mess at the drop of a hat. The very idea was insupportable, and certainly John, pretty eyes notwithstanding, has no right and no obligation to deal with her personal problems. 

And maybe if he did any of the patronizing guy things that she might have expected, such as attempt to deliver any platitudes or make a big deal of the fact that he was there to listen, no problem, she would have hated him for it. But instead, he guides her up the last few steps which lead back to the parking lot, and clears his throat. “I have to ask, Miss Harris,” he says with an admirable measure of sobriety, “Are you afraid of perfectly harmless and tame but rather large domestic animals?”

At that odd question, Rachel’s head jerks up, and then she follows his gaze to a black-furred, very plump pig apparently sunning itself in the parking lot with the nonchalance of a seagull on Coney Island. The pig snorts, then lumbers up to both of them, and then snuffles hard enough at Rachel’s handbag that she’s brought off-balance and all but tumbles into John’s arms. 

Now he grins, even as he steadies her. “Do you have any food in there? It smells something it likes.”

“I… er. Some trail mix. One of my friends in New York is sort of the outdoorsy type, and always suggests bringing along something to eat, just in case.” 

“In case of marauding parking lot pigs looking to freeload, probably,” John says gravely, and Rachel lets out a single giggle before she stifles it. He shakes his head wryly at the hopeful-looking pig. “You don’t have to feed him. He’s from one of the farms in the area, and just smart and greedy– knows that this is a good spot to beg for handouts from soft-hearted tourists who pass through here with their snacks and food scraps.” But Rachel digs the trail mix out of her purse before the pig can crash her into John again and shakes a handful of it onto the ground. The pig happily digs in with a snort, and both of them make their way towards the bus.

He stops her with a gentle hand on her wrist about a foot away from the bus’ door, and she turns back, and though he’s wearing the generic bland smile on his face, there is a bone-deep sympathy in his eyes as they stare down into hers. “Do you feel a bit better, Miss Harris? I know… I know it takes a bit to get accustomed to everything here.” Despite his implications, Rachel knows that he is not only referring to the high altitudes or the climate of the place.

Rachel swallows, then lifts her chin. “Yeah,” she says at last. “And… you can call me Rachel.”


	4. Jadeite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the jade lore mentioned in here was actually told to me when I toured this same area, by my own tour guide whom, unfortunately, was not a hot Jadeite lookalike! But oh well, we can't have everything!

Perhaps it’s the oxygen, or finally getting over the jet lag, but Rachel starts to feel a bit more like her normal self after another day or two, and on the morning that the tour is scheduled to go to a historic old town, she manages a nice enough smile for all and sundry when she boards the bus.

As usual, John Simmons takes his spot up at the front of the bus, and gives a brief overview of the old town, its history, and some of the local arts, crafts and eats sold within. 

“You will find lots of little shops selling silver, and jadeite, both of which are produced in the area. Now, I wouldn’t be doing my job as a tour guide if I allowed you guys to buy glass masquerading as the good stuff, right?” He reaches under the shirt he’s wearing, and pulls out a lustrous, dark-green pendant on red thread. 

“This is the Bodhisattva Guan Yin, or, more in layman’s terms, the goddess of mercy. It’s carved of jadeite, which is found primarily in Myanmar, a country which borders China to the south. Most of their raw stones are sent here for processing and carving, and a lot of the artisans in the area still create jewelry and artifacts in the old way. Jadeite is known by a few other names– hard jade, because it is higher on the Mohs scale than nephrite, or kingfisher jade, because its colours are said to resemble the iridescence of a kingfisher’s feathers.” He then reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a small woman’s compact, much to the amusement of everyone on the bus, and winks. “I know, I know, not everyone can say they woke up like this. Some people are luckier– and a lot prettier– than me.” 

Rachel tells herself amidst the chuckles that his glance at her means nothing, and focuses on his movements as he opens up the compact mirror. He clears his throat and continues his explanation. “So back to the original topic of how to tell real jadeite from fake. For one thing, it’s fairly hard. So…” He slides the bottom of his pendant along the glass of the mirror, then holds up the mirror for all to see. “Real jadeite falls between 6 and 7 on the Mohs scale. Which is hard enough to scratch glass. It’s also cold to the touch, and takes a while to warm up against your skin. If you clink two pieces together, it should sound almost like when someone taps a fork against a champagne glass, rather than a dull, plastic-y sound. And you should hold it up to the light. Anything that is too even in colour, without any type of crystalline structure in the stone, is probably either overly chemically enhanced, or pulverized glass bonded together to look like the real thing.”

He goes on to name a few reputable shops in case they wanted to buy any while there in the area, before moving on different topics such as local eats one might wish to try, before reminding everyone of what time to be back on the bus after the visit. 

After the bus parks, he falls in step next to Rachel, and at her startled look, grins in a slightly impertinent way. “Everyone else is off in groups. You’re the only one here alone, so you’d be the hardest to find if you were to get lost.”

She scowls at that. “I don’t always get lost. That day on the mountains in Shangri-La I wasn’t lost, I just didn’t feel well. And furthermore…”

What probably would have been a tirade on her part is cut rather anticlimactically short when a diminuitive old lady in ethnic dress steps into her path, holding out several wreaths of fresh flowers. “ _Hua hua, Mei nü_?” 

Rachel involuntarily glances at John, who smiles. “She’s asking if you would like to buy some flowers. We’re still pretty high up, and it’s quite sunny today– the combination of high altitude and hot sun can result in some pretty nasty sunburn. For local girls who may not have heard of SPF 45, flower wreaths are a popular way of keeping the worst of it out of their faces and eyes.”

“Did she just call me…?”

“Yeah, she did.” Now his smile morphs into a grin. “It’s not meant as a creepy term, you know. Didn’t you ever have friends from down south in America who call people honey or sweetie all the time?” He says something in Chinese to the flower seller, who smiles and surveys Rachel’s face critically before picking a wreath of exuberantly-blooming purple and lavender rhododendrons with a gap-toothed smile. She reaches up and unceremoniously places it on the top of Rachel’s head even as John slips her a small amount of cash. The flower seller quickly moves off, looking for her next buyer, and Rachel frowns up at John through her new, fluffy headdress. 

“You didn’t have to– I’m wearing sunblock. My foundation actually is SPF 15, too, on top of that.” 

He merely shrugs, and takes out the scratched compact again, and holds it in front of her face. Reflected, Rachel sees the slightly incongruous reflection of herself, with perfectly-winged eyeliner and classic ruby studs in her ears, and a flower crown befitting some fairy tale princess settled on top of her hair. There’s a flush in her cheekbones that certainly must come from the sun shining overhead. 

“It suits you.” John says quietly. “And… it’s a nice face. Might as well take whatever precautions we can to keep it that way, yeah?” And then, unthinkingly, he reaches up and tucks a stray lock of her hair behind her ear before dropping his hand, and Rachel can almost see him reminding himself to keep a professional distance. “Well. Want to go grab some tea or coffee? They produce both, locally, and it’s quite good.”

The last thing she needs is more caffeine to wreak havoc on her suddenly-jittery nerves and the mysterious swarm of butterflies in her stomach, and Rachel manufactures an air of studied nonchalance perfected from a long legacy of Manhattan cynicism. “Mm, I’m good. So where did you say we should go to buy jade?”

**

John takes her to a shop definitely a few steps up from the apparent tourist trap variety, with well-lit jewelry counters manned by polished-looking young men and women in matching ethnic uniforms. There’s a wide selection ranging from pendants to beaded necklaces to bangles in all different colours. “I thought jade was supposed to be green,” Rachel glances up at him. “Yours is. Did you buy it from here, too?”

“No, mine was a present,” he answers. “A good luck charm, if you will.”

Rachel privately wonders if it was from a woman and then scolds herself for the direction of her thoughts. “Yeah, I’ve only seen green jade before, I think.”

“That’s certainly the most common colour,” John tells her, before walking towards a selection of bangles in an ethereal shade of lavender-tinged white. “Mm, maybe this. Lavender jadeite is very rare, very precious. Some people call it violet flower jade.” As though on cue, one of the sales clerks unlocks the glass-fronted display and brings out a selection of stunning, translucent bangles for Rachel’s perusal, and she can’t help but pick one up, dazzled by its glossy, delicate colour. It is cold to the touch, much as John had said. 

“It’s probably a bit hard to put on,” he says softly even as the helpful sales clerk, apparently quite practiced at her task, wraps Rachel’s left hand in a polyethylene glove and helps her slip on the bangle. “But, you’re supposed to keep it on. Jade’s colours deepen and brighten the longer you wear it, especially if you’re healthy. It looks good on you. Brings out your eyes.”

“I don’t… oh, hell. Why not?” Rachel digs out cash, then raises her wrist to admire her new purchase. “It’s beautiful, it really is. But why did she put it on my left wrist without asking?”

“Jade bracelets are always worn on the left,” John tells her. “It’s on the side of the heart, and when someone wears jade, especially if it’s given as a present, it’s to remind the person that they’re loved, and that the giver wants to ensure their protection from evil, illness and sorrow.” He aims a crooked smile at Rachel and picks up her hand. “And when you buy it for yourself, it’s a reminder to love and care for yourself, because you’re worth it. Understand?”

It’s almost the sort of words her grandfather would have said to her when she was a little girl, and for that reason, Rachel gives his hand a squeeze back. “Yeah.”


	5. A Hundred Rebirths

As a rule, most of the meals were included in the tour’s itinerary, and it seemed to Rachel that most people were quite happy to take advantage of this particular day’s evening meal– not included in the tour– to sample local eateries. But while there’s certainly something to be said for trying street food (Rachel personally considered herself quite the connoisseur of the New York City dollar slice, for example), this would be more easily done had she spoken the language better and not been traveling alone.

And so it is that as they were preparing to leave the last attraction of the day, she stops John before they quite reach the bus in the parking lot. She is quite aware that he’s gone above and beyond with her, personally taking her around all the sites for the last few weeks, and certainly in America her offer would not be considered inappropriate. 

“Hey, John?” By now, too, it seems completely normal for the two of them to call each other by their first names. They’re friends– maybe not so close and familiar, and yet closer in a lot of ways than she’s wont to be with many people– after all. “Would you like to go somewhere to dinner with me tonight? I really don’t know where or what to eat– maybe you could give a few recommendations. And besides, it’s no fun to eat alone. My treat.”

He pauses, and bright blue eyes meet her violet ones. “Mmm, I would love to. Except, I have to be home right after we drop everyone off.”

“Oh.” _Well, then._ Rachel throws on cool indifference like a cloak. After all, she doesn’t know much at all about John Simmons’ personal life. Spending time with her while on the clock certainly didn’t preclude him from having a wife and a family and… belatedly, she realizes that she didn’t hear anything else that he was saying, and frowns. “Excuse me, say that one more time?”

That familiar grin crosses his face, but now it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, which seem almost nervous as they continue to gaze into hers. “I never actually do this, but… I would like to spend some more time with you, you see. If you wouldn’t think it’s too weird, you could come over for dinner. I don’t stay far.”

“Oh… are you sure?” This is certainly against protocol. But Rachel somehow finds herself shedding what she’d consider inherent New York suspicion, perhaps on impulse, but more likely on intuition. “Okay. If you’d like. And if you’ll get me back to the hotel after.” 

“Of course.” Now, as though they have a shared secret, they both ascend the bus, and Rachel finds herself smiling out the window at nothing in particular even as the other tourists get dropped off in groups at their respective hotels until she is the last one on the bus. 

John gives a few brief directions in Chinese to the bus driver, who laughs heartily and nods, and then the almost-empty vehicle heads out of the hotel district and into what appears to be a small cluster of houses on the outskirts of town. “Home sweet home,” John says with a courtly bow as the bus pulls to a stop in front of a modest frame house, built not too differently from the ancient abodes in old town, albeit on a much smaller scale. “Come on, follow me.”

**

Rachel isn’t quite sure what to expect as she follows John through a small yard planted with vegetables and in through a rickety door, but certainly it isn’t to see an old woman in blue homespun, her iron-gray hair in braids under a colourful kerchief, seated in a wheel-chair by a table. Another woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, is busily cooking dinner over an ancient stovetop, and looks up with a bit of surprise to see Rachel following John inside. 

John says something in Chinese to both, and the younger of the women smiles, replies even as she turns back to what seems to be gigantic pot of noodles, and John returns his attention to Rachel. 

“This is Ms Song, who is the caretaker, and it’s her evening off. She’s just finishing up cooking dinner, and then she will be going home.” His blue eyes land on the older woman, who has turned towards the sound of his voice and is beaming in his general direction. “I hired her to help take care of my former nanny here. Her name is Ms Xu, and she is almost blind now. Type 2 diabetes.” 

Rachel watches as John stoops down in front of the old woman, taking her hands in both of his, saying something low and soft with his golden head bent close to her gray one. Everything in his body language speaks to their bond– it’s the sort of love between a mother and son. Feeling a bit at a loss and out of place, she simply stands and watches as the caretaker fills three bowls with something that almost looks like Vietnamese pho, with a cutting board in the middle of the table full of ready-sliced meats and vegetables and condiments, before hanging up her apron and taking her leave. 

“Here, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. We picked a good day– Ms Song made cross-bridge rice noodles. Do you want yours spicy or plain?”

Rachel decides on just a little bit of spice, and stirs in a dash of chili sauce into her bowl. John introduces her to his former nanny, who reaches over and brushes her fingers slowly and carefully over Rachel’s face as though trying to learn her features. It’s a gentle touch that brings a lump into her throat, and she makes herself smile so that the old woman can feel it. 

Ms Xu says something to John, and he laughs as he replies, then turns to Rachel. “She asks me if you’re as pretty as she thinks you are. I told her you’re even prettier than that.”

“Oh, hush,” Rachel turns to her noodles and adds ingredients at random. “So… she was your nanny?”

“Mm-hmm.” John fixes up the older woman’s noodles before attending to his own. “I told you that my father got transferred to China for work, yeah? He used to work at the Chinese consulate in Chicago, back in the day, before he got a promotion. It took us to Beijing. I actually spent most of my childhood and teenage years there, not here.” He watches to make sure Ms Xu is eating her meal, then turns back to Rachel with a wry smile. “You could say I’m originally a city boy just like you’re a city girl, _mei nü_.” Now, the term seems almost an endearment. 

“Oh? Then how did you end up here?” Certainly, a man of his linguistic skill set could be making quite a bit more money in some place like Beijing, or even America. 

“My parents were always busy, back then, when I was a child. They hired Ms Xu to take care of me. She was the one who gave me my Chinese name ‘Jiang’– it means ‘river’. She used to pick me up from school, make dinner in the evenings, help me with my homework– especially Chinese homework, take me to the zoo and other outings on the rare occasions when I was good… you name it,” John smiles a bit sadly. 

“She was the one who gave me the Guan Yin pendant, actually, back when I was still a boy. She’s a widow, and has no children of her own. She’d gone to Beijing to look for work, because there are better opportunities there. She’d always told me it was _yuan fen_ that brought her and me together.”

“What does that mean?” The noodles are spicy and delicious, but Rachel barely pays attention to them. 

“I guess the best translation would be… predestination, the type which brings people into each other’s lives. They have a saying, which states that it takes a hundred rebirths before two people will ride the same boat, and a thousand eons before they share the same pillow. She didn’t have a son, and… when my parents ended up divorcing in my teens and my mom returned to America, I didn’t have a mother any more. But we had each other.”

Rachel’s mother, before she’d passed away from the leukemia, had made her husband promise to always let her own father stay at their home. Now, she wonders whether her mother had known, in her final days, how much her daughter needed that loving, steadfast person who’d always be there for her in her childhood. Rachel is dimly aware that there are tears rolling down her cheeks, but hopes that John can’t see them through the steam curling up from the bowls of noodles as he continues his story.

“Anyway, because I didn’t want to lose touch with my own mother altogether, I went back to the US for school. She’d remarried by then, and because she was happier, it made it easier to go home to her on weekends and holidays while I was at Northwestern. I do love her. But, a few years back, I got word that Ms Xu was ill. My father had let her go, obviously, after I went to college, but he’d set her up decently enough in a small apartment in Beijing, in gratitude for all the years she’d been with us. She wanted to come back to her hometown, though. She’d been born here, grown up here, gotten married here.”

“So you came back, for her,” Rachel murmurs. That type of bone-deep loyalty and devotion, built for years, would mean that he could do no less. “To take care of her. You got a job as a tour guide out here so that you could pay for her to have a caretaker, and so she’d not be alone.”

“Yes, to take care of her, as she took care of me, all those years,” John nods, then reaches across the table and brushes his fingertips lightly over her damp cheeks. “Don’t be sad for me, Rachel. I’m quite happy, really.”

“Are you?”

“Hey, I live in a place named after paradise, and get to spend my days taking walks under blue skies while meeting new people.” Perhaps to try to coax a smile out of her, he winks. “On occasion, I even get to have dinner with pretty, directionally-challenged girls from New York who are a lot sweeter than they’d probably like the world to think they are.”

“I am not sweet! Or directionally-challenged!”

“Mm-hmm,” John chuckles as he finishes his noodles. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anybody.”

They finish the meal soon after, and Rachel watches quietly as John washes the dishes, then helps his former nanny with her evening ablutions and insulin injection with what looks to be well-practiced ease. The diabetes had robbed the old woman of a great deal of her sight and her mobility, but when John helps her into her bed and tucks her in, her wrinkled face is content and serene. Rachel, feeling awkward and somewhat impulsive, takes that day’s flower wreath out of her hair and carefully untangles the stems until she has a small bouquet in her hands, and then fills a glass at the sink and puts the flowers in the middle of the table. At John’s glance, she tries to hide a fidget with a shrug. “Well, all women love flowers. Anyone who says they don’t is lying.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge and judgment. Come, let’s get you back to the hotel. I’ll call you a car. Like Uber, but Chinese.” 

He types something or another into his phone, then the two of them exit the house together. Outside, temperatures have dropped sharply since the afternoon, and Rachel shivers involuntarily for a moment before she feels John drape his jacket over her shoulders. It’s pale blue denim worn to cottony softness and reaches mid-thigh on her, and smells like herbal soap and Pu-Er tea. Off in the distance, she can see the headlights of the approaching “Chinese Uber” and turns back to look at John. 

“Thanks for dinner. And everything.” 

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” John raises a hand and cups her cheek. “One could say that it was _yuan fen_ which brought us together, too.” 

For a wild moment, Rachel thinks that he’s going to kiss her. And for an even wilder moment, she thinks that she just might have let him. But almost before that thought has a chance to flash through her mind, the car pulls up in front of them, and she clears her throat and steps back. 

“Good night, John. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll bring your jacket back to you then.” And then, before she can second-guess herself, she steps into the car and shuts the door. She watches him stand there, watching her as the car drives her away.


	6. Trouble in Paradise

Rachel is dropped off by the hotel by the “Chinese Uber” and returns to find seven missed-call notifications on her iPad’s facetime, all from her ex-boyfriend, Kade Bowen. It’s bizarre and unexpected; certainly, Kade had not made any effort to contact her since their breakup, and seven missed calls in rapid succession hints at a type of desperation very unlike the cool and collected lawyer. Frowning and wondering if something bad has happened in New York, perhaps to her father or maybe some other mutual acquaintance, she returns the call.

Kade picks up after three rings, and his handsome face settles into harassed lines on the screen. “Rachel. It’s half-past nine and I have a meeting in five minutes. I don’t have time right now, I shouldn’t even be answering this at work.”

Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Excuse me? I’m just returning your call. I had seven notifications from you. Is everything all right?” By some miracle, she keeps her voice calm rather than shrewish despite the quick surge of irritation at his tone.

“Yes, everything is fine… look, I have to go very soon. Meeting, like I said. Where were you, anyway? I would have thought that you’d have returned to your hotel a lot sooner than now.”

“Out having dinner with a friend, not that it’s any of your business any more,” Rachel snips out, raising her chin. “It’s what normal people do here at seven o’clock or so, local time.”

“You don’t know anyone there. Even if there are some of your grandfather’s contemporaries left in China, I doubt _you’d_ know any of them, considering he was only a young man himself when he’d left.”

Rachel closes her eyes and exhales slowly, counts to ten in her head. It would not do to give Kade the satisfaction of riling her up, not after the nice evening she’d had, and manages to modulate her voice to a tone of bland politeness so pleasant it could freeze a wildfire. “I’m sorry, it’s been close to a month here, in a small group of people that spend lots of time together on a daily basis. Surely you consider me socially adept enough to have made the acquaintance of one or two by now? I would hardly waste it upon you, but I have a more-than-adequate amount of charm at my disposal should the situation require.” The smile she lets cross her lips as she makes this statement is chilly and sharp enough to cut glass. 

“Of course,” Kade seems immune to her sarcasm, and returns her smile with a condescending one of his own. “I never implied otherwise, Rach. Look, I really do have to go, I’ll call you later.”

“Oh, goody. I can’t wait,” Rachel sneers, then disconnects the call before he could get another word in edgewise. 

She deliberately turns on the television and watches an hour of some period drama, complete with wire-fu and swordplay and elaborate costumes, in spite of language barriers and not the faintest idea of the plot, to distract herself before going to bed.

**

Kade facetimes her again, at a quarter to six in the morning, and it wakes her up. Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, she glares at the face in the screen. “What do you want, Kade?”

“I’m sorry if I woke you, but I have a dinner meeting with a client, so this was the only time,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry. “I suppose I should ask you how your trip has been. Hopefully you’ve been taking care of yourself– I saw a documentary on sanitation standards in foreign countries, and while I’m sure you’re sensible enough to get vaccinated before leaving, you should still take certain precautions…”

“I only drink water out of rusted drain pipes every other day,” Rachel cuts him off with an eyeroll. “And only once did I five-second-rule it when I purchased dodgy street food and dropped it on the ground by accident. Did you need something, or can I get dressed and ready to go about my day?” 

“Go ahead, I can talk while you do all that. I know how long you take in the mornings.” The smug tone in his voice grates on Rachel’s nerves, and she wonders how she’d ever managed to put up with it, let alone for so long. “I don’t have long– dinner meeting, like I said, so I’m just going to get straight to the point. I want you to come back to me, Rach.”

Rachel pauses, foamy toothbrush halfway from her mouth, and stares at the screen, speechless. He continues, without apparently expecting any response from her. “We’re good together, you know. You’re smart, beautiful, ambitious– and while I may not have always shown you how much I appreciate those qualities, you should certainly know that I do. Come on, Rach. We’ve known each other forever– our fathers are partners at the biggest and most prestigious law firm in Manhattan, for godsakes. Your father even dropped in to speak to me after you left me to say how disappointed he was over that whole debacle. His dearest wish is for us to take over the firm eventually. Harris and Bowen will always remain Harris and Bowen– I’d even let you keep your maiden name if we married, if you liked.”

Rachel sets her mascara wand down before she stabs herself in the eye by accident, and stares at her reflection in the mirror, unsure of whether to cry or laugh hysterically at what she’s hearing. Deliberately, she takes a minute to turn back to the screen. 

“So, you mean to say that you broke it off with Tiffanie. You know, the yoga instructor that you were fucking on the side.”

“Come on, baby! You know that wasn’t– that was only physical, and…”

“You really called me seven times for this?” Rachel’s voice is vibrating with rage. “So you mean to say that the bimbo, whose g-string I found in the laundry hamper, was ‘only physical’, in the sense that clearly I am not exciting enough in bed for you. But because I am so much more suitable in all other aspects, you’ve, what, progressed from making decisions with your dick to making decisions based on stock portfolio options and the opinions of the country club?! You know what, Kade? I think that yoga instructor Tiffanie with an ‘ie’ is perfect for you. Congratulations. I hope you two will be very happy together. Goodbye.” 

He calls two more times, and Rachel ignores him both times, but when her father calls, she sighs and picks up. “Yes, dad? If this is about Kade, the answer is no, never again.”

“Well, then.” Trent Harris raises an eyebrow in an expression identical to Rachel’s. “I guess I just got told.”

“Sorry,” Rachel huffs out a breath and takes a seat on the bed. “Kade’s been calling. He’s trying to get back together.”

“I know,” her father says slowly. “I spoke to him the other day– he’d mentioned that he didn’t really understand why you’d go on this trip, and that he missed you since the two of you broke up.”

“Well, we won’t be getting back together, so you can put that hope to rest if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

“Not completely,” Trent’s voice is low and careful. Rachel has never heard him raise it, except in the courtroom. “I never did the full story on why you broke up, though.”

“He cheated on me,” Rachel says without preamble. “Of course, he says he’s sorry and that it meant nothing. But I don’t feel as though I should have to put up with that.”

“Certainly not,” Trent’s dark brows draw together in a scowl. “My daughter does not have to settle for anything or anybody. I did mention to him that it seemed as though he had made you unhappy, and to fix it. I didn’t know the details, though.”

“Not worth knowing, dad,” Rachel sighs. “Can we not talk about him?”

“Okay.” Trent looks as though he might have something to add, but acquiesces easily enough. “Are you having a good time in China?”

“Yeah, I am,” Rachel smiles her first genuine smile since last night. “It’s beautiful here, even if I’m apparently not physiologically super-compatible with high altitudes. I can see why Gramps wanted to go.”

“That’s good,” Trent nods, then there’s an awkward split-second pause before he speaks again. “I’m glad you’re happy, connecting with that side of your heritage. Your mother would’ve wanted that, too.”

Rachel doesn’t have many memories of her mother, who’d been buried the same year that she’d started first grade, but the solemnity of her father’s expression lets her take his words at face value. Before she says anything else though, her borrowed Chinese iPhone rings.

It’s John. “Where are you? I’m in the hotel lobby, _mei nü_ ,” he tells her when she picks up, and she jerks up her head, realizes the time. She was supposed to be down ten minutes ago.

“Crap, I’ll be right down.” She hangs up, then turns back to her father on facetime. “I have to go. I’ll see you back in New York, dad.”


	7. A Thousand Eons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we sort of hit the PG13 end of the rating spectrum *cough*

She’s slightly dishevelled when she meets John in the lobby, juggling purse and cell phone and trying to shrug on a jacket. “Sorry! I’d gotten a call from people back in New York, and lost track of time, and… oh, shit, your jacket’s still in my room! Do we have time to get it now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” John adroitly helps her into her jacket and smiles down at her, though his eyes are full of concern. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Peachy.” Certainly there’s some type of huge etiquette no-no in discussing her ex with her– well, no, John wasn’t… This was not the time for that particular train of thought, not when she was about to face a busload of people, and…! Rachel rushes up the steps of the bus and takes her seat, and feels blue eyes glancing her way every few minutes even as he greets the group with his usual friendliness and introduces the activities for the day– the last leg of their tour. 

If he’s at all put off by Rachel’s somewhat irritable and preoccupied demeanour, he says nothing of it, and is uncharacteristically quiet as he walks with her through their last destination of the day– a massive garden filled with fantastical topiaries and blooming roses and perennials. It’s beautiful and lush, and he waits until her gait has slowed down from a pace to a slow walk before he asks her, again, if something was the matter.

Rachel pauses in front of a plot of tall white lilies that nearly reach her shoulders, and smirks wryly. “Well, nothing too important. If I were in New York, though, I’d probably be calling my friend Cali and the rest of the girls for a night of wine and junk food and bashing men. But no, nothing important.”

“Oh, dear. Whatever I did in stereotypical male ignorance and idiocy, I apologize,” John says somberly, and when she musters a smile and shakes her head as though to tell him that he didn’t do anything wrong, he gives her his usual teasing grin. “Well, that’s better, now isn’t it? You’re cute when you’re riled up, but prettier when you smile.”

Rachel had been told to smile far too many times before– by asshole jocks in high school, by creepy men on the street, by Kade, even, during fancy, exhausting public events. But never before had it been said in a tone as though the speaker wanted her to smile for herself, rather than for him. She slowly turns to John, clears her throat. “Would you like to grab a drink with me tonight, somewhere? Or, wait, you have to go home to Ms Xu…”

“No, Ms Song’s there tonight,” John tells her, then digs in his bag for pen and a sheet of paper, scribbles down something in Chinese. “Okay. Here’s the name and address of a place I know that’s decent, if you’d like to go. You can just give this directly to a cab driver, and they’ll know it. We can meet up there.”

**

The bar’s located on a street in old town, in a quaint old building amidst what looked to be a quite-active night bazaar, and John is waiting at the door when she arrives, his hair shining bright under the lights of countless signs and red lanterns. Rachel had not been quite sure what type of bar it would be, and certainly had not brought anything too fancy to wear on the trip, and was therefore quite glad to see that he wore casual jeans and a soft blue t-shirt. She’d switched her hiking boots for Louboutins, though, and the added height brought the top of her head almost to his nose. 

“They do make cocktails, and you can also get western liquor here if you’d like– Jack Daniels and Chivas Regal bottle service is popular with people looking to show off, but I’d recommend the wine, personally. Their house red is a local blend made from wild plums.” His eyes take in the sight of her, from the classic red lipstick to the lavender jade bangle on her wrist to the tops of her shoes, peeping out underneath her black jeans. “You’re really very beautiful.” 

“Thanks.” They get a table, and within minutes, two glasses of wine are placed in front of them, along with a tray of salty snacks. The wine is fruity but delicious, as promised, and Rachel lets the taste of it wash away the unpleasantness of earlier. 

“So, who is it that we’re drinking and bashing?” John asks lightly, taking a sip of his own wine. 

“My idiot ex,” Rachel tells him, after a few sips. “It’s so stereotypical it’s almost a joke. He’s the son of the other partner in my dad’s law firm– was in his second year of law school when I started undergrad. You know the type– sophisticated, good-looking, comes from money, plays and watches golf religiously every weekend, has a chauffeur who drives him around in a Bentley, can order a meal in a French restaurant with a snobby French accent… and a complete ass. We started dating my second year of law school, went steady until I finished, and then I found out, right after I took the bar, that he was sleeping with this yoga instructor on the side. So I kicked him to the curb. That was like three months ago, and now, out of the blue, he calls me. I actually had a ton of missed calls from him last night while I was at your place.”

Her glass is refilled, and she swallows more wine. “I call him back, thinking it’s something serious, because why would he be trying so hard to reach me while I’m out of the country, right? Nooo, he just wants me back.” She almost sets the glass down hard enough to slosh wine on the table, but stops herself at the last minute. “Not because he really cares about me one way or another, mind. But just because we’re suitable. Like I’m that sensible three-piece suit he can wear to all formal occasions even if he’d like to rock a biker jacket on his downtime. It’s bullshit. Calliope– she’s my best friend in New York, we’d roomed together through all four years of undergrad– would probably be making noises right now about handing some thug out of the ass end of the Bronx a suitcase of cash and letting him take care of business.”

“I see.” John frowns at his own barely-touched wineglass, then reaches over the table and takes her hands gently in his. In contrast to the cool jade against her wrist, his fingers are almost blissfully warm. “I don’t have to tell you that you deserve so much better. You know you do.” 

“I know. I told him to fuck off, more or less.” Rachel tries not to focus on the fact that his thumbs are rubbing soft circles into the backs of her hands. “I’ll still have to deal with him on a regular basis in New York, since he’s working in my father’s firm, but… I’ll never be involved with him in any other context, ever again.”

“You did the right thing. You deserve to be happy, and to do whatever makes you happy.” 

The look in his eyes is so intense that it almost sends a shiver down her spine, and Rachel looks at her half-finished second glass of wine, trying not to remember that it’s her last night here– that while she was getting ready to come to this bar, she’d already gotten a text from the driver who’d be picking her up in the morning to take her to the train station so she could return to Beijing. There’s nothing and everything left to say, and that’s a concept far more scary, somehow, than being all alone in another country where she didn’t speak the language. It’s suddenly imperative to break the tension at their table, and she stands up, glancing at the dance floor at the other side of the bar. Some Chinese pop song is playing, and while she doesn’t know the words, it’s got a catchy rhythm. “Let’s go dance.”

He lets her pull him up, and they make their way through the crowd of people, but by the time they’re actually on the dance floor, the song is winding down and another, much-more-familiar one takes its place. Certainly, Rachel isn’t expecting a random club in China to be playing some throwback from her teenage years, but the opening chords of “She Will Be Loved” by Maroon 5 come through the speakers. 

It should be awkward, she thinks, even as his arms wrap around her waist and her head lands against his shoulder. A month ago, she didn’t even know of his existence. But it doesn’t feel awkward at all, and she clenches her hands around fistfuls of the shockingly soft fabric of his shirt even as she feels his cheek press against her hair. She turns her face slightly as they sway to the slow music, and the pulse in his neck is right there against her lips. It’s too quick for this slow song, just like hers, and this song is too short for them to be together like this. 

His breath stirs the hair at her temple even as Adam Levine’s voice fades off singing about not trying so hard to say goodbye, and he pulls back just enough to stare down into her face. “I should get you back to your hotel room.” His voice is even, but even in the dim lights, there’s a hint of anguish in his eyes which echoes her own. “You have a train to catch in the morning.”

**

But he doesn’t let go of her hand, even as he hails a cab. The ride back to the hotel takes all of five minutes, and he walks her inside. But when he would have finally taken a step back, she tightens her grip on his fingers, stares up at him through her eyelashes. “John.”

“Yes?”

“Your jacket is still up in my room. The one you loaned me, the other night.” Rachel doesn’t plan to lead him towards the elevator bay, but it’s as though her body is acting without any conscious thought from her brain at all. “You should come up and get it.”

The elevator door opens and she steps through, and even as his eyes kindle, now the hot blue of gas flame rather than cloudless sky, he still holds the open door button with one finger. “Rachel. I’m not… I’m not him.”

“I know.” She reaches for his hand even as her other one reaches up into the soft blond hair at the nape of his neck. “Thank God,” she whispers as she presses her lips to his even as the elevator doors slip shut. He only stills for a moment before his hand fists in her hair and his mouth crushes down on hers. 

By the time the elevator reaches her floor, his mouth is buried somewhere against her neck and her hands are reaching under the hem of his shirt and coming in contact with smooth, hot skin. Somehow they find themselves in her room, and nobody says anything about his jacket at all. They can barely stop kissing each other to drag off each other’s clothing, but somehow they manage. He lifts her off her feet, stepping around the haphazard piles of discarded clothing, and when she lands on the bed, her breath escapes in a sharp exhale. But neither of them say anything, because it’s only a few short hours before sunrise, and they can’t possibly be close enough. 

The first time is fast and hungry and a little desperate, and she comes so hard that she can barely draw in enough breath to say his name. The second time is slower, after a long shower where he washes her back, and the smell of her body wash is incredibly different on his skin. Her damp skin is chilled in the cool night air as he lifts away the towel, but not for long as his body covers hers and his fingers slide over every inch of her as though trying to memorize the way she feels. And sometime after the third time, exhausted, still tangled up with him, she falls deeply asleep.


	8. Not The Word For Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Yi lu shun feng_ : Roughly translates to “May your entire journey be in the direction the wind blows”– wishing someone safe travels.

Rachel wakes up the next morning to the sensation of warm fingers carefully smoothing her hair out of her face, and then a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. She kisses back, sleepily, and when she finally blinks her eyes open, she sees John seated at the other side of the bed, already fully dressed. He smiles, and it’s almost the same cheeky grin that he’d always given her, except it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I know your train is set to leave for Beijing at half-past eleven, which means that the driver will be here around nine to pick you up,” he says quietly, taking a step away from the bed. “You’ll want to grab a bite to eat before you leave; it’s a long train ride.”

He keeps his voice light, almost casual, and were it not for the expression in his eyes, Rachel might have thought that last night meant nothing to him. But it’s as though he’s determined not to make it any harder on either of them. They don’t have enough time to say all which needs to be said, and saying only part of it would only create a bigger wrench in… one hour, thirty-eight minutes, twenty-some-odd seconds. And she has just enough pride in herself to agree with that reasoning. He fiddles with his phone– more to give her privacy as she climbs out of bed and gets dressed– than because of any pressing engagements, and she goes through her usual morning routine by rote, meticulously brushing her hair and putting on makeup with the slow and steady movements of someone whose iron grip on control is so rigid that it might shatter with the slightest deviation from the norm. Never before has the build-up, layer after layer, felt so much like a flawless, brittle mask. 

Finally, she puts everything back into her cosmetics bag, and even as she’s carefully pulling the zipper tight, she watches, in quiet helplessness, as he comes up behind her, his reflection coming closer and closer until the warmth of his chest is right up against her ramrod-straight back. Rachel looks down, staring at the splashes of water still in the sink, because if she sees how perfectly, how naturally her body curves into his, she’ll end up doing something incredibly stupid– like cry, or beg. 

“It takes hundreds of rebirths to bring two persons to ride in the same boat; it takes a thousand eons to bring two persons to share the same pillow.” His voice is muffled against her hair, and she manufactures a brave smile, standing perfectly still as he gives her hands one last, long squeeze before stepping back. “I have to believe that I’ll see you again, _mei nü . Yi lu shun feng_.” 

When he leaves, he shuts the door of the hotel room silently behind him. She’s not quite sure what his last words mean. But they’re not the word that she knows for "goodbye".

**

Rachel is not sure if John left his jacket behind on purpose, but when she discovers it still draped on the chair where she’d left it, she puts it on. It looks odd and out of place with the rest of her outfit and far too large, but she wears it for the entire train ride back to Beijing. And when, two days later, she steps into the first class cabin of Air China flight 8919, direct flight from Beijing to New York City, she’s wearing it over an old Columbia Law sweatshirt and her comfiest pair of jeans. It’s almost warm enough. Almost, but not quite. 

She has just finished stowing her handbag underneath the seat in front of her when the quiet sound of someone gently clearing their throat makes her look up, and she sees a smiling woman with a sleek bob of wheat-blonde hair standing beside her seat. “Excuse me, honey, I do believe my seat’s that window one next to yours,” the blonde drawls in a soft, Scarlett O’Hara southern accent. 

_It’s not meant as a creepy term, you know. Didn’t you ever have friends from down south in America who call people honey or sweetie all the time?_

Rachel’s breath lodges somewhere between her chest and throat and turns into something fiery-hot and the approximate size of a bowling ball, and even as the blonde looks at her quizzically, she can’t seem to force her limbs to move a single inch for several minutes. Certainly someone must notice the ball of fire caught in her throat, cutting off her air and hurting so much that she can’t quite stifle a gasp. Belatedly realizing that the other woman’s still waiting for her to move, she gets up, even though her legs feel like jelly, and lets the blonde pass through. 

One… two… three… four blinks, and there’s far too many people around for the luxury of dissolving into tears. She picks up the skymall catalogue and flips the pages without registering a single thing, hopelessly aware that her hands are shaking, but anything is better than having a very humiliating, very public breakdown. She estimates that it’s close to another hour before the plane would reach cruising altitude and the fasten seat belt signs would be turned off, and then, if by the grace of God the lavatory isn’t being commandeered by some frantic parent with a howling wet baby or…

She’ll go insane before then. She just knows it.

“My name is Ann,” the blonde southern lady’s voice cuts through her frantic thoughts, and she forces herself to dig through the tearing grief, forces herself to smile, though she’s certain it looks like nothing so much as a grimace. “What’s your name?”

“Rachel.”

“It’s nice to meet you, sweetie.” Rachel can’t quite hide another flinch, and maybe the other woman picks up on it, because all of the sudden she makes a tutting noise, and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Awww. Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”

“No,” Rachel’s hands clench so hard that her knuckles turn white and she feels her nails digging into her palms. The pain focuses her. “He is. _He is_.”

“Ahh, except when he is,” Ann something-or-another nods slowly. “Well, then, I know just the thing.” Without an ounce of shame, she hits the attendant call button even though half the crew are conducting the final cross-check, and beams a megawatt smile when one finally arrives. “Could we have two margaritas? One regular, one a double. Thanks!” She turns to Rachel and pats the latter’s clenched hand. “Why sit in first class if it’s not for the free booze, right? I do admit, I miss a good margarita. Where I live these days, they’re not exactly readily available.”

“What? You sound like you’re American,” Rachel knows the conversation for what it is– an effort at distraction– but for all that, she finds herself incredibly grateful for the other woman’s kindness. “Why wouldn’t you be able to have margaritas?”

“Oh, born and raised in the US of A, certainly,” Ann answers with a smile. “But I’m an expat, and I’ve spent the last three years in the UAE. Just went on a business trip to Beijing, and now I’m off to New York for a good friend’s wedding. Say, you’re from there, aren’t you? It's the accent. What are some good places to eat? I’m a food blogger. Obviously, there are the really famous ones that have waiting lists as long as my arm, but I’m thinking something a bit less… persnickety.”

So Rachel finds herself telling this stranger about all the little hole-in-the-wall places she’d eaten at and enjoyed in New York City over mediocre but quite-effective margaritas, and the pain, while still there, dulls from a stab to a throb. Ann talks quite at length about living as an expat, and that is enough to give her pause. Perhaps it’s the tequila. Perhaps it’s the company. Perhaps it’s her own almost-hidden vulnerability, or a combination of all three. But whatever it is, it’s enough for a germ of an idea to slowly enter her brain and begin to take root.


	9. Epilogue

“No. Bring it. You’re going to be there for more than a month this time, and who knows what the weather might be like?” 

“Not warm enough to wear tiny, skimpy black dresses, Cali,” Rachel almost laughs, but before she can react, her friend takes the sleeveless Diane von Furstenberg cocktail dress out of her hands and stuffs it none-too-gently into a garment bag. “And besides, I’m going to be there to work, mostly, not to…” 

At that moment, the intercom buzzes. “Miss Harris, it’s Mr. Kade Bowen,” the doorman’s voice comes respectfully through the box. 

Rachel rolls her eyes even as Cali loudly hums the Wicked Witch of the West theme from The Wizard of Oz. “Fine. Let him up. Might as well get this over with in person as through seven missed calls on facetime again, right?”

Kade knocks on the door a few moments later, impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray Michael Kors suit and a black cashmere coat, his handsome face settled into a frown. “I heard from your father– who, by the way, is quite remarkably abrupt with me these days, that you’re actually transferring to the Chinese branch at your work. Rach, this is not like you. First, you took off on that trip on some whim, then you completely shoot the plans you’ve had since forever to work for someone else’s company instead, and now you’re off to China _again_? Over a _guy?_ ”

“No. Not over a guy. But because those original plans, complete with marrying you and raising 2.5 kids to be snotty and superior to wait staff like their father is, don’t suit me any more,” Rachel raises her chin, yanking a pair of jeans out of a dresser drawer and packing them into her suitcase. “And my father is okay with me working as in-house counsel for Estee Lauder, he told me himself. If that work happens to take me to China, that’s my business, certainly none of yours.”

Kade shakes his head and sighs in exasperation. “I keep hearing rumours about some guy or another. If that’s true, then that’s so very unlike you, Rach. And if you haven’t kept in touch with him in this whole time– which considering that nasty censorship problem they have over there I’m sure he doesn’t even have any social media presence to speak of– well, you’re wasting your time, if you ask me. And your money. Thousands of dollars, down the drain!”

“No one asked you, asshole!” Cali pipes up, shooting to her feet in Rachel’s defense. “So you can take your snide, self-righteous prick attitude and your bullshit unsolicited advice and shove it up your…”

“It’s okay, Calliope. Kade isn’t here for long. He knows I have to go to bed early tonight, I have a plane to catch in the morning.” Rachel ushers Kade towards the door, then steps back, and though her voice is soft and even, it is lethally sharp. “Sure, I’ll spend thousands of dollars. Which is a lot less than I would end up shelling out in therapy bills, not to mention divorce court settlements, had I stayed with the likes of you. Now, I really do hope you have a good and happy life, Kade. If you could dig up some speck of human kindness and dignity from the depths of your soul, please give me the same courtesy. Have a good evening.”

In the background, Rachel can hear Cali golf-clapping, before the other woman cackles a loud “Bye, Felicia!” and reaches out to slam the door in Kade’s face. 

**

Rachel, bolstered by Cali’s enthusiastic encouragement if not by the quite-ludicrous amounts of Agent Provocateur lingerie that the latter apparently deems necessary to bring on her trip, makes it all the way to cruising altitude on the plane before the anxiety hits. In the year and a half since she’d seen him, she’d taken it upon herself to learn how to speak Chinese, and landed a job with a chance for international work. John may have spoken of fate, of predestination, but nothing was wrong with giving it a little push, right? And once she’d gotten the ball rolling, so to speak, it was quite a bit easier than she thought it would be. She might not be fluent, not quite yet, but learning the language is a lot easier than she thought it would be. Gramps would have been proud. 

But… she had indeed not spoken to John since the latter had walked out of her hotel room all those months ago, taking a huge chunk of her heart with him. The borrowed cell phone had been returned to Miss Chen at the tourist agency, and a facebook search for “John Simmons” had turned up quite a few different people of that name, but none of them him. He was handsome, friendly, charming, and met new people every day. They had not made any type of promises or commitments. Even if he wanted to see her, how would they find each other in a country of close to two billion people? 

She hits the attendant call button to ask for a cup of water for her suddenly cotton-dry mouth, and then glances up in surprise at the familiar face of the flight attendant. It’s the same one who’d brought her and Ann the southern lady expat margaritas on that flight so long ago, when she’d almost broken down. 

What were the odds, right?

 _Yuan Fen._ Fate, and predestination, which brings people into each other’s lives. Rachel calms down, drinks her water, and lets herself anticipate the crowds of people going through the customs line once she arrives at her destination in Beijing.

**

It’s just as big of a crowd as she remembers, though this time, she navigates it with quite a bit more aplomb, and when the officer asks for her papers and her destination, she answers, in halting Chinese, but with a smile. There’s no polished tour agency liaison to greet her this time, but she follows the signs herself, heading for baggage claim, then the taxi stand. One pulls up to the curb just as she makes her way down the walk, and when the man exits out the back and stands, looking up through tousled golden-blond hair, she just can’t believe her eyes. 

“Oh my God, Rachel?” His voice is incredulous, and then she feels the pressure of familiar hands on her shoulders, and then she’s crushed to his chest as his arms go around her, tight, shaky and ecstatic. Neither of them seem to be aware that they’re holding up traffic, that the cab has long-since pulled off as they stand in each other’s arms at that curb surrounded by their bags– his, slightly battered canvas, hers, a sleek black leather matched set. She feels his breath, unsteady as hers, tangling the hair at the top of her head, hears the racing beat of his pulse under her ear, and when she looks up, she can barely see his blue eyes through her tears. But his lips press against hers, first lightly and carefully as though trying to ascertain that she’s real, and then fiercely. They don’t part until both of them are about to pass out from lack of air, and even then, she clenches her hands where they lay– one around a handful of his shirt, the other tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“What are you doing here?” Both of them ask the exact same question at once, and it elicits a giggle out of her, especially when she notices that they’re still standing at the street curb surrounded by both their bags. He, too, seems to come back into the present, and raises a hand to hail a cab, even though his other holds onto hers. Whatever his business is at the airport, he seems to forget it altogether, because he gets into the cab with her after they jam-pack their combined bags into the trunk, and lets her give the cabbie her destination without any input. 

“You first,” Rachel orders. Her head is pillowed against his shoulder like it belongs there and she’s quite sure there’s an incredibly stupid, goofy smile on her face that she can’t control. “What are you doing here?”

“I just got off the train, then headed straight here, with some nebulous plans to check out flights to Chicago,” John tells her, one hand stroking down the length of her dark hair. “It’s the wrong time for that, of course. Chinese New Year is a big traveling holiday, and… lots of flights on standby. My excuse was, of course, to maybe go surprise my mother. But I was going to go to New York afterwards. I didn’t really have a concrete plan. I just… I had to.” His eyes, a great deal bluer than the smoggy Beijing sky, stare into hers. “I had to believe that fate would have brought us together a year ago, that it meant something.”

“It does,” she whispers, and then she’s not sure who makes the first move, but suddenly they’re kissing again, blissfully unaware of the snarls of traffic and the honking car horns as Beijing reaches rush hour. “It means everything,” she mumbles against his lips. “I got a job out here. In-house counsel, Chinese branch of Estee Lauder. I guess I’ll have to learn how to navigate the subway system here. Can't be worse than New York, right?”

He offers to teach her, and doesn’t let go of her for a moment, not even when they arrive at the apartment that’s part of her stipend, and all their bags tumble down somewhere in the living room area and she lets out a rather undignified squeal as he lifts her off her feet. They don’t really get to exploring her new place until quite a while later, after eating takeout dumplings from the diner down the street straight out of the plastic to-go containers, in bed. 

Some months later, after the summer monsoon season has ended there, they make another trip to Shangri-La. 

Rachel doesn’t get lost this time. Or sick.

But she does buy another wreath of flowers from a little old lady. It looks a bit incongruous still, fluffy purple blooms against her dark hair amidst the sea of red silk that she’s wearing, but all the varied people present and taking photographs seem to agree on one thing. Calliope says it as Rachel and John stand together, silhouetted by soaring mountains and setting sun, his lips pressed to her jade-encircled wrist. 

“God, she’s a pretty bride, isn’t she? They’re going to live happily ever after.” 

***FIN***


	10. A Post-Script

“Legend states that once upon a time, there were ten suns, rather than just the one. And one morning, all ten of them rose at once, almost burning the world into ash. The Master Archer, Hou Yi, shot down nine of them so that only one was left to light the sky, and was awarded the Elixir of Immortality for saving the world. He gave it to his wife, Chang’E, for safe-keeping, but told his apprentice that he had it in his home. One day, his treacherous apprentice tried to rob Chang’E and force her to give him the Elixir, but she swallowed it rather than allow him to take it. She floated up into the heavens, but chose to stay on the barren moon rather than amongst the other gods and goddesses in order to be closer to her beloved husband. And so every year, during the Mid-Autumn Festival, when the moon is the largest and brightest in the sky, he brings out her favourite cakes as an offering to her, to celebrate their love and faith, to show that he has not forgotten her, even though they are so far apart. And the mortals of the world also take it as an opportunity to pray to her, for luck and fidelity in love.”

Rachel’s eyelashes flutter closed, lulled by the soft, smooth timbre of John’s voice as he tells the old, old story. It’s three years, two months, fifteen days and a few hours since they first met, and certainly at that time she would not have expected this day to come to pass. 

The harvest moon is gigantic in the sky, the coppery hue of a hearth-fire, and the air is brisk and chilly now with night. They’re in Shangri-La again– taking the holiday to visit the place where they first met and fell in love– and it doesn’t have the hectic pace and lights and noise of New York. Or Beijing. She doesn’t mind the respite, especially now. 

John smiles tenderly and drapes an ancient denim jacket– an article passed between the two of them quite often, if truth be told– over her slim shoulders. There are a few subtle changes in her the last few weeks, he thinks, glancing at the half-eaten mooncake left on her plate. A slight, almost luminous pallor to her cheeks, a decreased appetite for sweet, rich foods. A tendency to drop asleep a bit earlier and quicker than his usually-energetic wife was wont to.

He wonders if a prayer to Chang’E would be warranted, then laughs quietly at his own sentimental thoughts, and reaches down to pick her up. Her face nestles into the crook of his neck, fitting perfectly, and she mumbles something almost-incomprehensible against his skin, but doesn’t completely awaken. 

Her words aren’t in Chinese, or in English, but he presses a lingering kiss to her temple, lips brushing satiny black hair. “I know, _mei nü_.” They’ll discuss it in the morning, when she’s completely awake, but for now it’s just the idyllic silence and the night air and the moonlight and the feel of her, in his arms where she belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pfft, three guesses to what R. says at the end, and the first two don't count!


End file.
